Dark Poetry Prose Poetry October 27, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

10-27-03 9:32pm monday brick NJ

sadder still than losing love is realizing that you can't let yourself have it. that it's there in your heart. but it's lost its will to live. sadder still than having to let go is watching it happen without your consent. seeing your heart crawling back into its old dark place more hopeless than it's ever been.

i don't know how to stay friends this time. because i feel cheated. by myself. by my denial. by the roulette i played. because i know i placed my bet on a number that doesn't even exist. because this time more than ever i begged to lose.

i don't know how i can care for you outside the scope of my own hurt in this situation. because i haven't lost love. but it feels like my heart has abandoned the concept. that it no longer believes in the one purpose that it had. because suicide has happened inside my chest. and a grave is all that's left.

sadder than losing the love of someone else is losing the ability to love them back. to walk beside the memory of when you did and call to your heart to speak again, but it stays silent. shaking its corpse and feeling how stiff and cold it is.

i don't know where that margin lies between wrong and right. not in situations like this. and i've seen you know no better. not beyond the construct of your own needs. and that's just it. how much can you need me. when there are so many other things you need much more. and isn't love at it's core a need. for someone or something. and there are so many things you need more than you need me.

it's not that i'm waiting for it to change. or that i even want it to. i guess i just want to be in that place you are. with all those other things that take precedence. with a list of loves long and worth the effort. i guess i just can't really see myself as anything more than the lust in your eyes. an affection you can't find where you meant. a temporary bandage on wounds i did not inflict. a temporary cast until you've healed again.

it's not as if i expected the future. and we haven't even yet much of a past. it's not that i expected anything. but i think i got more than i wanted. both good and bad.

losing love that's a tragedy. never having it, that's sadder still. being able to love, that's a symptom of living. loving only that which is out of reach, that is the disease.

i don't feel my heart breaking. feels more like it's stopped breathing. as if it took this wrong love that it felt and fashioned a noose to hang itself.

10-27-03 monday 10:26 brick NJ

it hasn't been easy. but it was worth it. i can't forget how good it felt sometimes. especially now that it's so much less than that.

your thorns they bled me, but it tasted so sweet. your barbs they scarred me, but i'm glad i have something of you that will always be a part of me.

i wish i could know where we should go. where we should pitch this tent. high atop some mountain in love that might have been we built our camp, but we never accounted for the weather. how cold or how hot it might get.

i don't know. i've lost my perspective. i'm down to just emotion. and that's not something on which i can depend. i look for reason not in myself, but in you instead. because that's my obligation. because that's what i suppose it means to be not just your lover, but also your friend.

you decide what you want to take from this. and what you want to leave outside. once you have you give me that list. and i'll check off what i can give you and what i just can't.

and we'll see what comes of that.

10-27-03 monday 10:50pm brick NJ

false lives trying to paint themselves real. like one tiny star pretending it can light the heavens. but it takes so many millions. if only they could agree on that. if only they could come to terms with the fact that alone they're nothing, but together they have a great impact.

if every line could be as genuine as. those few that actually are. like digging through the dirt for that one tiny speck of gold it may contain. covered in the muck and mire of your hunt you become accustomed to the filth.

ambivalent as a goldfish in a dr suess story. craving the good sensastions as you're fearing the consequences.

answering only to find you've held back another lie. and the ones you do tell, they become true. just as you're telling them, they're brought to life. like frankenstein. the dead animated again.

and what is there left to do except marvel at the concept. desire colliding with obsession to bring to life the dream you once thought could only be dreamt.

it was just a pause in sense that dropped us into this other realm. where touch was monarch and orgasm the sheriff. it was just a stutter in the recording that changed absolute to ambiguous. and wrong isn't how i would describe it. no, i'd just call it self-descrution gathering its weapons.

do i love. of course i do. you always suspected. do you. i've only guessed. even as you promised i have always found it hard to accept. but you knew that before i affirmed. you felt it and it was to your benefit.

no crime in stealing what i never really wanted to have. no theft in taking that which i'd give away given the chance.

and these paragraphs ramble on long that is their right. these feelings ask for what this lfie cannot supply.

it's not about what i want. or what i've yet to know. it's always been about the collision of two lives. the explosion. where those pieces would go. how they might come together again. if they ever did.